


chasing the sun

by lincesque



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 21:40:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lincesque/pseuds/lincesque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gandalf listens to the song of the wind, watches the dance of the stars, tastes the bitter sweet tang of earth and feels the searing heat of the sun across his skin.</p><p>Soon, he knows, everything will start again, a never ending cycle, thousands of years in the making.</p>
            </blockquote>





	chasing the sun

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in response to [this](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/3138.html?thread=4726082#t4726082) prompt on the Hobbit Kink Meme. I love the reincarnation!trope and I really liked the idea of Gandalf gathering the Company once more in modern!Middle Earth and thus, this fic \o/
> 
> Title taken from The Wanted's '[Chasing The Sun](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZIyYMjI-xFg)'. Ahfahfo. Originality. What is this originality you speak of? =3
> 
> Unbeta'd at the momentttttt. So forgive the tragic, tragic mistakes orz.

 

 

The Battle of the Five Armies ends with blood and tears and the bodies of countless warriors strewn all over a muddied battlefield.  
  
Dáin is crowned King Under the Mountain even as Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, is laid to rest, Orcrist placed within his cold hands, to be sealed into his tomb for all eternity. Fíli and Kíli sleep peacefully in eternal rest opposite their uncle, side by side with each other, following him as always.  
  
The remaining dwarves of the Company kneel to their new king even as they mourn their old.  
  
And so, one line of Durin ends.  
  
Gandalf rides from Erebor, the Lonely Mountain, with a pale and shaken Bilbo at his side and the Arkenstone hidden within his robes.  
  
It rains and doesn’t stop, turning the road ahead of them a dark sludge and slowing their pace down to a bare trot.  
  
Gandalf sits astride his saddle, face drawn and solemn, glancing worriedly to the shivering hobbit next to him, stiff in his own saddle.  
  
Bilbo hasn’t spoken since those last few precious words with Thorin, the scarce few sentences whispered in voices so soft that no one, save for Bilbo and Thorin, knew what had been said.  
  
Thorin has taken those words with him to the grave. Gandalf knows for a fact that Bilbo will as well.  
  
*  
  
The world spins, continues on.  
  
Gandalf watches as the Age of Elves comes to an end and the Age of Men begins.  
  
He watches as change slowly seeps through Middle Earth. The era of industry arrives and with it, innovation and improvements and rapid changes to both environment and the way of life.  
  
He watches as the population grows, as the other races retreat, faced with the overwhelming numbers of man, ever exploring, ever curious and always expanding.  
  
Soon enough, Elves and Dwarves and Hobbits, they become not much more than bedtime stories told to children as entertainment. Soon enough, there is no one left on Middle Earth but the race of Man.  
  
Gandalf sits and he watches and he waits.  
  
*  
  
The world spins and it carves the path of a circle through space and time. What has come before will come again. What has gone before will begin once more.  
  
An end to the cycle approaches, everything is almost ready to restart again.  
  
Gandalf inhales deeply, drawing deep from his pipe, and exhales with a perfect ring of smoke. He sits on a bench in the middle of a beautifully landscaped park watching as children run past, talking, laughing, playing.  
  
He listens to the song of the wind, watches the dance of the stars, tastes the bitter sweet tang of earth and feels the searing heat of the sun across his skin.  
  
Soon, he knows, everything will start again, a never ending cycle, thousands of years in the making.  
  
But for now, he takes the time to sit back and let the lingering taste of smoked ash coat his tongue with each puff of his pipe.  
  
His time to be busy once more will soon come.  
  
*  
  
One winter, there is a babe born under a full moon.  
  
He lies meekly within his mother’s arms, blinking up at her almost solemnly, and doesn’t cry. His father smiles, proud and so happy, leaning down to kiss both mother and newborn son.  
  
The babe becomes a precarious toddler, ever curious, and then a charming young man. He has his father’s nose and temperament, sharp and stubborn, and his mother’s eyes and lips, deep blue and sensual.  
  
He grows, day to day, year to year, whip smart and tall and with a subtle dry wit that few ever learn to appreciate.  
  
His name might be Thornton or Richard or something else entirely, but that matters little because thousands of years and many lifetimes ago, his name was Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain. And thousands of years previous, he was slain by an orc blade dipped in the vilest of poisons, doomed to die before he could take up his rightful heritage and forgive the person dearest to his heart.  
  
And now, in a time where Erebor is nothing but a myth and Dwarves are merely tales written into books of fantasy, he walks Middle Earth once more.  
  
*  
  
Smaug rises, reincarnated from the ashes of his long forgotten grave, a sickly thin young man with eyes of rusted gold and hair of dulled coal. When he smiles, there’s too many sharpened teeth and too little humour.  
  
Gandalf watches, carefully now, as he calls himself Draco or Adrian or a hundred different other names. But he is Smaug, there can be no mistake in the way he gathers riches to himself, in brilliant diamonds and blood red rubies and frozen blue sapphires. He hoards both gold and silver, in pure metal and in electronic stocks and he runs his fingers over bundles of printed currency, thousand dollar bills stacked in neat piles on shelves that stretch farther than the eye can see.  
  
Smaug lives once more, gathering money and thus power and influence, and Gandalf knows that the time has finally come.  
  
*  
  
Gandalf marches into the towering building in the middle of the sprawling city, ignoring four secretaries and dodging at least eight security personnel who try to detain him.  
  
He strides straight into the office of the man he’s here to see and closes the door behind himself, locking it with a gentle wave of a hand.  
  
The man sitting behind the large desk rises, backlit by the setting sun behind him, haloing him within fiery reds and oranges and hiding his features behind dark shadows.  
  
“Do I know you?” he asks, voice just as deep and grave as Gandalf remembers.  
  
“You did once, long ago,” Gandalf replies, stepping forward, slow.  
  
The electric lights overhead flicker on as darkness sets in and the man before him is cast into light abruptly. He has changed little in features and bearing in the many thousands of years since their last parting, but he is a man now, not a dwarf, so he stands tall, easily able to look Gandalf in the eye. His previously long, wild mane of hair is now brushed back, worn short, and his chin lies smooth, cleanly shaven. He is very much the same and yet, very much different.  
  
Gandalf withdraws the pouch from within his jacket and places the Arkenstone he’s guarded for much too long into the man’s hands.  
  
He watches as broad shoulders straighten and that sudden light of recognition flood into deep blue eyes which snap to his face, wondering.  
  
Gandalf dips his head in the shallowest of bows and smiles, broad and unfettered. “Well met once more, Thorin, King Under the Mountain.”  
  
Thorin’s hands close around the priceless jewel that he had gone to war and subsequently died for, his knuckles tightening until they bleed white. He closes his eyes and inclines his head in turn. “Well met again, Gandalf of the Istari.”  
  
When Thorin’s eyes open once more, he is every inch the fearless king who had reclaimed Erebor from the clutches of a nigh impossible foe by sheer force of will and the dauntless aid of his rag-tag band of twelve dwarves, a wizard and a hobbit. The same king who led armies of thousands to victory and bled the last of his lifeblood on a battlefield with just one regret.  
  
“Why?” Thorin asks, simply.  
  
Gandalf doesn’t pretend to misunderstand and he answers, straightforward, blunt even, for once.  
  
“You are needed now, Thorin,” Gandalf says, looking past him to the twinkling city lights beyond. His words are slow, each syllable dropping heavily into the silence. “Smaug rises again, pillowed on the wealth bribed and taken and stolen from thousands. He will bring a great calamity on us all and the lands we reside on.”  
  
Gandalf looks to Thorin, meets his gaze. “It is time to take up your sword and slay the dragon once more.”  
  
*  
  
With Thorin awakened, in possession of two sets of memories, the Arkenstone and the hefty power as the sole heir to a mining empire, Gandalf leaves.  
  
He has no guidance nor any suggestions to offer Thorin, leaving him to his own thoughts for the moment. There is time yet still for everything.  
  
Gandalf walks on, passing through cities filled with men and women and children rushing from one place to another. He carries a large rucksack filled with items he’s collected in the time he has spent waiting for this time to come once more.  
  
There’s twelve items in total, he has twelve people to find and the entirety of Middle Earth to walk in order to find them.  
  
He starts.  
  
*  
  
He says his name is James or maybe it’s Brendan, Gandalf isn’t too sure because he doesn’t pay attention, and he’s a doctor in a tiny rural clinic.  
  
“Remember to take your pills,” he calls after a smiling child, held safe within her mother’s arms.  
  
He turns to Gandalf, the last person in the waiting room, and he settles onto a chair close by.  
  
“You said you wanted to talk to me?” he asks, curious, voice light and still smiling, polite, despite the long and exhausting day he’s had.  
  
Gandalf tilts his head up to look at the patchwork ceiling. “Your intern, does he show promise?”  
  
He looks a little surprised at this topic but nods. “David’s a good kid, with plenty of experience under his belt now. Steady under pressure and the folks around here trust him.” He shrugs. “To be honest, I think he’s more than capable of handling things here on his own with another nurse or two to help out.”  
  
He leans back and looks up as well. “It might be time for me to move on again,” he says finally, with a guilty relief in his tone. He seems to need to speak about this to a stranger, to someone who he doesn’t know and won’t judge.  
  
“Planting roots here doesn’t appeal?” Gandalf asks, sliding one hand into his bag and pulling out a metal whistle, half again as wide as a recorder and much longer.  
  
“No,” he sighs. He glances over at Gandalf briefly before looking away. “There’s something always at the back of my mind, pushing at me, telling me that I need to keep moving. I don’t know why. Wanderlust, I guess.” He laughs, a little awkward, a little forced. He obviously doesn’t believe it’s something so simple.  
  
Gandalf smiles and slides the whistle into his hand, closing his fingers around the battered metal. “Thorin is gathering the Company once more,” he says and withdraws his pipe from within his sleeve. “Will you join him on his quest a second time, Master Bofur?”  
  
Bofur blinks, eyes trailing from the instrument in his hand to the pale white of Gandalf’s hair and neatly trimmed beard. Then he beams, wide and bright.  
  
“Of course, Master Wizard, of course. You didn’t even have to ask,” Bofur chortles, fingers stroking his beloved instrument and raises it to his lips once more.  
  
The high piping notes of songs long forgotten rises into the night air for a long time after.  
  
*  
  
Gandalf finds the next two sharing an apartment in almost-suburbia, 500 miles from the tiny town he found Bofur in.  
  
“What do you want?” the taller of the two grunts when he opens the door to Gandalf. “We’re not buying anything.”  
  
Gandalf prods past him with little difficulty and slips into the small house. The second one, still white haired even as his housemate is still bald, frowns at him.  
  
“Do we know you, sir?” he asks, words clipped short. The taller one stands behind his shoulder, arms crossed and glaring. Neither are pleased at his intrusion.  
  
Gandalf isn’t intimidated, instead, he lays the sleek dark case he has with him on the table and unbuckles clasps, opening the lid gently. The fiddle is already tuned, having anticipated this meeting, and Gandalf lays it upon his shoulder, touching bow to string.  
  
The song soars through the small house, full of anguish and heartbreak, of lost homes and loved ones gone and the end note draws to a close on a soft vibrato, fading slowly into silence.  
  
Both of them sit perfectly still, staring at him, recognition trickling into their eyes and features.  
  
Gandalf slides the fiddle back into its case and hands it over. “I believe this belongs to you, Master Dwalin.”  
  
Dwalin bows, running a thumb over the string and listening to the soft notes left in its wake. “Gandalf, it is good to see you after so long.”  
  
“And this is for you, Master Balin,” Gandalf continues, lifting a long dark feather quill from the side of the fiddle case, where it had been tucked away safe.  
  
“Gandalf,” Balin says, smile breaking over his features as he turns to embrace Dwalin. “Brother.”  
  
Dwalin echoes the word, arms tight around the person he’s called friend all these years and called brother for far longer in another lifetime.  
  
Gandalf pulls out his pipe and lights it, content to just watch.  
  
*  
  
“I do not believe you.”  
  
Gandalf tilts his head and raises an eyebrow. “Is it that hard to understand, Master Dori?”  
  
“My name is Mark,” he says firmly, distrust in both his eyes and voice. “You, sir, obviously have the wrong person.”  
  
With a small sigh, Gandalf offers him a package, carefully wrapped in heavy waxed paper. It is taken from his hands with another frown but opened nonetheless, displaying the intricately carved box to the world.  
  
“I will be in the park yonder, near the oak tree, if you should wish to find me,” Gandalf tells him and leaves him to his slowly awakening memories.  
  
*  
  
Gandalf finds the next two sitting together, side by side, behind a picnic table in the shade of the old oak tree he had spoken of.  
  
He places a checkered wooden board and a small bag onto the wooden table and removes his pipe from his mouth, smiling down at the two. “Would either of you care for a game?”  
  
The elder of the two studies him briefly before nodding, gesturing him to take a seat opposite. “I hope you are a worthwhile opponent,” he says, upending the cloth bag of wooden chess pieces onto the board, nimble fingers righting them and placing them into position.  
  
“You won’t know until you play me,” Gandalf replies mildly, blowing a tiny smoke ring, then another slightly bigger one around it.  
  
The other man, barely more than a boy really, stops scribbling in his notebook in order to stare at the perfect rings of smoke, wide eyed. Gandalf smiles at him kindly and hunts through his pockets for a moment.  
  
“I believe this belongs to you,” Gandalf says to him and offers a plain wooden box.  
  
It’s taken with a soft, if puzzled, ‘thank you’ and opened slowly. The older man by his side watches like a hawk, hovering, protective, fingers tightening on a wooden chess piece. The piece he holds is rounded, squat and flat where the other pieces are sleek and tall. Gandalf hides his smile behind his pipe.  
  
“Oh,” the younger one says and reaches a hand in to touch the small slingshot, eyes suddenly glittering with a sheen of tears as he remembers.  
  
He looks up at the man beside him in shocked recognition. “Nori,” he whispers and throws his arms around him.  
  
“Ori,” Nori rumbles back, pressing his forehead against his baby brother’s. One of his hands still clutches the wooden game piece that Gandalf had slipped into the bag. It’s one of many that he and Dori had handcarved by firelight all those years ago on the road to Erebor for Ori’s game set.  
  
Ori turns to Gandalf, scrubbing at his teary eyes. “Where is Dori?” he asks, eyes begging for any information. Nori holds him close to his side, gaze also questioning, but still as protective as he was before, as he always was.  
  
“I am here,” a low voice answers behind him and both Nori and Ori spin around and come face to face with their eldest brother for the first time in too long.  
  
Dori’s eyes meets Gandalf’s over the table and he inclines his head. “Apologies for before, Master Gandalf. I did not mean any offense by my words or actions.”  
  
Gandalf shakes his head. “None was taken, Master Dori.” He looks over the three with fondness. “It is good to see you again, Master Ori and Master Nori, as well.”  
  
“Thank you,” Ori says, one hand tight in Dori’s sleeve, still tucked against Nori’s side. “Thank you for reuniting us three again.”  
  
“The pleasure is all mine,” Gandalf says.  
  
*  
  
“I’m busy,” he grunts when Gandalf approaches him with a smile. There’s grease smeared over his cheek, over his muscled forearms and abundantly over his pale blue overalls.  
  
“Oh, this won’t take long,” Gandalf says and places a tiny intricate toy into his palm.  
  
Gandalf watches as the furrowed brow smooths and both eyebrows go up, first in surprise and then in anticipation.  
  
“My cousins?” are the first rumbled words spoken out loud in Khudzul in thousands of years, the rough syllables seemingly hewn from the stone themselves.  
  
“I have found Bofur,” Gandalf says, “he would have met up with Thorin by now, along with the rest of the Company I have found so far. Bombur is still one of the ones I have yet to locate.”  
  
He claps him on the shoulder and slips him an address, scrawled on a scrap of notepaper. “Head there and you’ll find them all. I will join you once I locate the last few stragglers of our Company.”  
  
The note is scanned and secreted away in a pocket.  
  
“It is good to see you again, Bifur,” Gandalf says just before he slips out of the door and back into the cold, dark night.  
  
*  
  
“Oh dear, I believe you dropped this.”  
  
He turns and Gandalf takes the opportunity to drop the locket into his hands. He turns it over and blinks up at Gandalf.  
  
“I’m sorry, I believe you’ve made a mistake. This isn’t mine,” he says and tries to give the locket back.  
  
Gandalf shakes his head and nods at the small gold locket hanging from a thick, sturdy gold chain. “Have a look inside, I’m sure you’ll remember then.”  
  
There is a wary look that is directed at Gandalf, but the instructions are nevertheless followed.  
  
His auburn hair gleams under the midday sun, his square jaw almost hidden behind a neatly trimmed beard a bare shade darker. Large fingers opens the tiny locket deftly and he’s presented with the image of a lovely woman and a child, their features finely etched into the delicate stone set within.  
  
“My wife. My son,” he breathes as memories come tumbling back and his eyes are wet with tears when he finally looks up again at Gandalf. “Master Wizard,” he says and clutches the locket to his chest. His gaze asks the question he cannot bring himself to speak out loud.  
  
Gandalf’s hand is gentle on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “All in due time, Master Glóin,” he promises.  
  
Glóin has always trusted their Company’s wizard implicitly and it hasn’t changed. He nods at Gandalf’s words and fumbles the chain over his head, the locket hangs next to his heart when he tucks it into his shirt.  
  
“If you have time,” Gandalf says, subtly guiding Glóin towards a nearby coffee shop, “We should talk about some things.”  
  
Glóin inclines his head and lets himself be steered, one hand touching the locket still. “As you wish, Master Gandalf.”  
  
*  
  
The rain pours.  
  
Gandalf walks slowly down an almost deserted street, black umbrella keeping the worst of the downpour at bay. He hums a quiet tune to himself as he walks, eyes scanning the small shops lining the road.  
  
He stops before one, the writing on the glass door proclaiming it to be the best antiques shop in the county. Gandalf ignores the ‘closed’ sign and puts one hand on the door, the lock clicking open at his touch. The door swings open easily and the bell above tinkles, loud.  
  
“I’m sorry, we’re closed.” The man behind the counter frowns a little as he looks up. There are books, accounts by the looks of the numbers, scattered all around him and he caps the pen he was writing with, placing it on top of the pile.  
  
Gandalf inclines his head in acknowledgement even as he makes his way to the counter.  “I noticed,” he says, mildly. “But I thought you would be rather interested in what I have to show.”  
  
The man’s frown doesn’t go away, but there’s interest in the tilt of his head and the rise of an eyebrow. He closes several of his books and stacks them into a small pile, clearing enough space for the box that’s in Gandalf’s hands. He’s comfortably past middle age, well into his fifties at least, with thinning snowy hair crowning his head.  
  
“Since you are here already, I might as well take a look,” he says gruffly as he pulls a pair of wire rimmed glasses from his pocket and slides them on.  
  
Gandalf merely smiles, as if he had known and expected this reaction. He places the plain box onto the wooden counter and lifts the latch.  
  
The small ear trumpet is battered, but the intricate carvings around its curves are vivid and still gleam silver.  
  
The man’s sharp inhale is the only sound in the room even as his shaking fingers reach for the item, nestled in blue velvet.  
  
“Master Óin,” Gandalf says and he watches as Óin’s hand curls around his trumpet, tremors gone and hand steady once more.  
  
“Master Gandalf,” Óin replies, bending in a deep bow. “I have missed you and the rest of our friends dearly.”  
  
“Thorin stands at the head of the Company once more and we are in need of your assistance again,” Gandalf tells him, gravely.  
  
“Where is it we go and what is it that we seek?” Óin asks immediately, no hesitation at all.  
  
Gandalf just smiles again and clasps a hand around Óin’s sturdy shoulder. “All in good time, Master Óin. All in good time. There are still many other things to be done yet.”  
  
*  
  
Gandalf finds him on the stage of a classy bar, guitar in hand and singing softly into a microphone.  
  
There are scores of young ladies giggling behind their hands or fluttering their lashes in his direction. He smiles at them all and continues his song.  
  
Gandalf listens to him sing about a love that’s found and then lost and perhaps exists to be found again one day. His voice is a pleasant tenor, nothing really special, but it is the emotion beneath his words that makes the song heartbreakingly beautiful.  
  
Gandalf talks his way backstage and is there when the singer comes offstage, guitar in its case. Gandalf smiles and nods a polite hello. “Good evening.”  
  
He’s more than a little wary, tenseness in every muscle, but he nevertheless nods back. “Evening.”  
  
“I’ve been searching for you,” Gandalf says and walks forward, slow, placing the small cloth wrapped item into the other’s hand and stepping back.  
  
He eyes Gandalf warily, suspicious, but puts down his guitar and unwraps the richly embroidered material surrounding the object. He stills when he sees the battered leather sheath and there’s several seconds where he merely stares down at the item cradled in his hands, eyes wide. He draws the knife from within with one sharp movement, hands none too steady.  
  
The small throwing knife is a delicate if hardy piece, forged in the deepest fires of Erebor by the hand of a prince. There are silvery runes carved into both blade and hilt and there’s a large sapphire, a flawless glittering gem, set into the pommel.  
  
Dark eyes glimmer with tears as the Khudzul words inscribed on the gleaming blade are revealed, read and understood for the first time in millennia.  
  
“My brother,” he says, voice choked, the throwing knife clenched in one shaking fist as long forgotten memories return in one sharp rush. “Have you found him?”  
  
Gandalf draws him to his side, gentle, understanding the fresh pain. “We will find him together, young prince,” he says. He bows then, shallow. “Hail Prince Kíli, sister-son to Thorin, King under the Mountain.”  
  
Kíli gathers himself, raises his head and returns the gesture, voice steady, if rough. “Hail Gandalf the Gray, of the Order of the Istari.”  
  
*  
  
Where one is, the other isn’t far behind.  
  
This is a universal truth about the sister-sons of Thorin Oakenshield. It doesn’t change even when they are not quite the same young dwarves who had followed their uncle on a journey that would end with their deaths.  
  
Gandalf finds Kíli in a bar on a main street in Carrock City. He finds his brother in a university barely two kilometres away.  
  
“Fíli.” Kíli rushes forward, carelessly brushing past students and lecturers alike, muttering his apologies absently. He only has eyes for one, honing in on the pale blonde sitting underneath the shade of a tree.  
  
He throws himself onto him, arms tight and bites back a sob. “Fíli.”  
  
For his part, the blonde is confused, startled. He pushes ineffectually at the sudden weight in his lap. “Um. Excuse me?”  
  
Kíli draws back and wipes at his eyes. “Sorry, sorry.” He fumbles in his pockets and withdraws a silver clasp. There’s a delicately carved rune on the clasp representing Kili’s name and it’s been polished to a bright sheen. “Take this.”  
  
Kíli thrusts it at him and watches as the other man looks from it to Kíli’s face and then back, the frown on his features already turning into a slow dawn of remembrance.  
  
“Kíli?” he asks, voice uncertain and his fingers brush the metal clasp once, twice and his grey eyes clear. He looks up into the face of his brother whom he had last seen slumped over him, protecting him to the end. “Kíli,” he breathes, “my brother.”  
  
“I have missed you,” Kíli says and lets Fíli draw him into another embrace. They clutch at each other, almost desperate for contact.  
  
Fíli brushes a hand over Kíli’s cheeks, his jaw and bites out a watery laugh. “Still unable to grow a beard even now, hey?”  
  
Kíli’s answering nudge is gentle and he ruffles Fíli’s hair. “At least I am taller and still more handsome.”  
  
They stare at one another, uncaring of the curious looks thrown their way and Gandalf watches over them and makes sure no one interrupts, letting them have this moment of quiet together.  
  
*  
  
Gandalf picks a flight at random, smiling politely at the young woman manning the sales counter. “Any flight towards Hobbiton would be lovely,” he says. “Maybe within the next week, perhaps? If possible, of course.”  
  
She smiles back, half automatically and half bemused. Obviously his request and polite words aren’t ones that’s often heard in her line of work.  
  
“Of course, sir. If you’ll just wait a moment while I check our flights?” she asks and taps away at her keyboard.  
  
“There are two flights on the Friday after the next, one in the morning and one in the evening,” she says after a moment, eyes fixed on her screen. “Both of them will land at Rivendell Airport and from there you can catch any number of trains to Hobbiton, or charter a light plane to fly you over if you’re in a hurry.”  
  
“Oh no, there’s no hurry,” Gandalf tells her and passes her his ID and a black, embossed credit card. “I’ll take the later flight, if you please.”  
  
She takes both with a more genuine smile and returns to her screen, inputting information. There’s nothing but the quiet tapping of the keyboard for the moment, the sound more or less swallowed by the muted chatter of people bustling to and fro behind.  
  
“Off on a holiday?” a cheerful voice enquires from beside him.  
  
Gandalf looks over to find a fiery redhead, portly of stature, watching him in a friendly manner. The clerk at the next counter over is on the phone, obviously clearing up some matter of importance for the man. The man himself is dressed neatly, pressed suit peeking out from beneath a thick winter coat and his round face is open, pleasant.  
  
Gandalf inclines his head. “Indeed,” he says, smile widening as the sales clerk places a receipt on the counter for him to sign. Gandalf scrawls his signature with a flourish, tucking his fountain pen back into his jacket pocket. He looks over at the man at the next counter again. “And I think that you will find we might have the same goal in mind.”  
  
With that, he picks up the tickets and tucks that and his credit card into his wallet before wandering off, quickly vanishing into the multitude of people leaving both the portly red haired gentleman and the sales assistant staring after him with twin looks of surprise.  
  
*  
  
“So we meet again.”    
  
Gandalf looks up from his evening newspaper to find a familiar face smiling at him. He sits, left leg crossed over right on a bench at the train station, waiting for his service to arrive.  
  
“Indeed,” Gandalf responds, rising and offering a hand to shake. “I did say that we might find ourselves meeting again in the near future.”  
  
He grins at Gandalf. “Are you a fortune teller?” he asks, only half in jest.  
  
Gandalf gestures the man into the seat opposite, watching him settle his bulk easily, gracefully even, before he answers. “Hardly. I am merely good at predicting certain things. A certain sort of luck, if you will.”  
  
“I thought you were heading over to Hobbiton,” the man asks, casual. It’s spoken in a tone that says he won’t be offended if Gandalf chooses to decline to answer.  
  
Gandalf inclines his head. “Indeed, but that is in five days. I have plenty of time to take a train ride over towards Beorn National Park.”  
  
“Visiting friends or relatives perhaps?” he asks and Gandalf’s smile in response is suitably bland.  
  
“Perhaps. I have heard the park itself is something special indeed.” Gandalf taps his bag. “I have brought my camera in case I see that great black bear that is rumoured to live within the forest.”  
  
A companionable silence falls between them as trains arrive and then depart again, a steady flow of passengers embarking and disembarking. Gandalf returns to his paper and the man taps away on a tablet, alternating between his inbox and the stock market.  
  
Eventually, Gandalf folds his paper and puts it into his bag, withdrawing a brown paper bag instead. He opens it and offers it to the man sitting next to him. “I brought these along for the journey. These candies are quite a rare delicacy in these parts.”  
  
The man’s eyes light up at the words and he takes one, popping it into his mouth and chewing slowly. Gandalf watches, the tiny smile on his lips widening slowly as he watches the trickle of memories returning, of another life lived long ago.  
  
“Master Gandalf,” the man says and, leans forward, clasping a hand over Gandalf’s wrist and pulls him into a rough embrace. “It has been too long.”  
  
Gandalf pats him on the back gently before releasing him. “Indeed it has, Master Bombur.”  
  
Bombur looks down at the paper bag of sweets sitting innocuously beside Gandalf and laughs, booming and jovial. “A rare delicacy indeed, Master Wizard. The kind of which hasn’t been made in the many millennia since the Dwarves vanished from Middle Earth.”  
  
Gandalf places the bag within Bombur’s hands, closing his fingers around them. “It was not untrue,” he says.  
  
He rises as their train draws up. “Come now, Master Bombur, we still have a few more things to do before we can have ourselves a complete Company again.”  
  
Bombur follows.  
  
*  
  
Gandalf sits within Thorin’s thirty storey high office and tells him that the Company is together once more.  
  
Thorin paces restlessly from one end of his office to the other, fifteen strides to cross from left to right, fifteen again to return to his point of origin. He only stops when Gandalf has finished relating everything he knows.  
  
“Is he –“ Thorin starts and then stops, swallowing. He looks away and Gandalf waits patiently, unperturbed by the loaded silence.  
  
“Will he be with us once more as well?” Thorin asks finally, voice muted, as if he dares not to hope for the answer he wants. They do not need to speak the name to know who they refer to, for there is still one missing from their Company of fourteen, one who Thorin cherished above all else in his previous life and even now still cannot forget.  
  
Gandalf waits a beat, then two, letting the silence stretch once more, for just a few brief moments. Thorin’s eyes start to shutter even as Gandalf shakes his head.  
  
“Patience, Thorin,” he tells him, gentle, kind even.  
  
“But,” Gandalf continues, smiling softly when the cautious hint of hope returns, “you left for Erebor with a Company of fourteen. It would not be seemly for you to leave for this quest one member short.”  
  
Thorin smiles.  
  
*  
  
There’s a gun against the small of his back, the metal of the muzzle a press of chilly disapproval, easily felt even through the material of his suit jacket and shirt.  
  
Gandalf raises his hands slowly, palms open and doesn’t tense. He keeps his body language relaxed and as nonthreatening as possible. “You have an interesting way of greeting your guests,” he comments.  
  
“Usually my guests knock and then wait to be let in instead of taking it upon themselves to hack the electronic lock on my door,” is the somewhat dry reply.  
  
Gandalf hums, almost noncommittal, but does incline his head in acknowledgement. “Forgive me, old habits are hard to break.”  
  
There’s a brief hesitation and a single, fleeting moment when the barrel of the gun presses in a little harder, but it is gone in the next. Instead, there is the sound of footsteps backing away slowly and Gandalf considers it safe enough to move. He turns in time to see the other man, the owner of this delightful penthouse apartment, tuck his weapon back into a shoulder holster.

Gandalf bows, the slightest of curves of his spine, to his unwitting host. “It has been too long, Master Baggins.”  
  
The other man watches him, unblinking. Each moment he makes, or doesn’t, is clearly calculated. There’s a caution to his movements that Gandalf doesn’t remember from before, perhaps a result of his line of work in this lifetime perhaps.  
  
“I think you have the wrong fellow,” he says warily, watching Gandalf with narrowed eyes. “That’s not my name.”  
  
Gandalf just smiles even as the doorbell starts ringing. “Oh my dear friend,” he says, deliberately turning his back as he goes for the latches on the door, “I think you’ll find that I’m rarely, if ever, wrong.”  
  
*  
  
Kíli and Fíli are the first two through.  
  
They burst into the room, wide eyed and grinning, babbling to each other in that incomprehensible way that close siblings do. Kíli spots him first and Fíli notices barely a second later.  
  
“Mister Boggins!” they cry in tandem and dive at the smaller man.  
  
“Excuse me, I don’t think -” is the ruffled beginnings of a protest but it’s stopped mid sentence when a large hand smacks him on the back. “Ouch.”  
  
“Master Burglar,” Dwalin booms, a twitch of amusement pulling at the corner of his lips even as Balin bows his own greeting, an easy movement, beside him.  
  
Bofur is next, Bifur and Bombur half a step behind him. “Bilbo!” he says, delightedly, and snatches him up for a long, friendly hug before passing him to Bifur who punches him on the shoulder, grinning widely, and then to Bombur, who sets him down with a smile after a hug and spins him around back to face the door.  
  
“Delighted to see you again, Master Hobbit,” Dori says and Nori nods behind him. Ori ducks out from behind his brothers and gives a brief, tight hug before standing back.  
  
“It is good to see you once more, Mister Bilbo,” Ori says, grabbing hold of Dori’s sleeve even as Glóin and Óin insert themselves gently in front.  
  
Glóin bows and Óin offers a small smile, “Laddie, it is good to find you once more. You had us worried for a while there.”  
  
Gandalf watches, content to remain the corner as the anxious, uneasy look in their burglar’s eyes fade into something approaching puzzlement and bemusement as each member of the Company introduces themselves once more.  
  
“I know all of you,” he says, scanning over all twelve faces present, squashed into his somewhat small living room. He’s still not fully relaxed but at least he’s not reaching for his holster again.  
  
“I feel like I should know you all,” he repeats, bewildered. “Why?”  
  
The Company exchange heavy looks and quiet murmurs amongst themselves but no one moves to step forward nor to speak up.  
  
The doorbell sounds once more.  
  
Gandalf turns towards it even as all conversation stutters to a halt and silence falls.  
  
“He is here.”  
  
*  
  
He opens the door in one smooth movement and then he stills, eyes widening as the other man steps into the light.  
  
“You,” he breathes. “I remember you.”  
  
Gandalf clears his throat and two pairs of blue eyes, one the colour of the sea in the depths of winter, the other the colour of the sky on summer’s warmest day, look up towards him.  
  
“Bilbo Baggins, may I introduce to you the leader of our Company, Thorin Oakenshield.”  
  
Thorin bows, deep and low, and grasps one of Bilbo’s hands to raise to his lips. His eyes are dark with emotion even as he presses the lightest of kisses to Bilbo’s fingers.  
  
“Thorin Oakenshield, “ he murmurs, his burning gaze never leaving Bilbo’s. “At your service.”  
  
Bilbo’s eyes fill with tears as he turns his wrist so that he and Thorin are palm to palm and his small fingers close tight around Thorin’s much larger ones.  
  
“Bilbo Baggins, at yours, my King.”  
  
*

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also available to flail with/taking prompts on [tumblr](http://tumbloncat.tumblr.com) ♥

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Darkness Reborn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3215372) by [Caiti (Caitriona_3)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caitriona_3/pseuds/Caiti)




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